


For the Widows in Paradise, For the Fatherless in Bright Moon

by gaydaydreamer



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Hero Worship, Older Woman/Younger Woman, authority kink, if she-ra is a being made of pure magic then angella is a being made of pure guilt, lots of incidental allusions to religion, mostly - Freeform, sooooo much hero worship, there's way more smut in this than there has any right to be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24401170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaydaydreamer/pseuds/gaydaydreamer
Summary: "If there's any other way, I'll do anything for you."
Relationships: Adora/Angella (She-Ra), Angella/Micah (She-Ra), Angella/Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra), with mentions of: - Relationship
Comments: 26
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (contextualizing Angella's sacrifice through romance, maternal obligation, regret...)This has been in my docs forever, waiting for me to be satisfied with it. Posting one part a day unless I hit a major editing snag (very possible). The thing is, there are a lot of bits and pieces that I really love, and some I am still so frustrated with...hopefully this fic ends up being greater than the sum of its parts. I still cry real tears about Angella sometimes.

I.

It’s hard to refuse her daughter anything, having already robbed her of the chance to know her father. Even allowing her enemy to stand beside her in the hall where her late husband stood and share a moment of tender silence, though it tests her limits, is permissible for Glimmer’s sake. Angella speaks to the girl in motifs of sorrow and love, a love that outshines even her overwhelming trepidation. A nervous hum still fills her chest, cautioning her that the risk is too great. A Horde soldier! She decides not to question Glimmer about the circumstances that brought them together to begin with-- for her health, it's best to ration her outrage to one flagrant disobedience per day. 

Regardless, the host is quite lovely in her own right. Her hair and skin glow with vigor and her aura crackles with heat lightning, indistinguishable from the vibrancy of her soul-bound sabre. She comes to her in the middle of the night, awash in moonlit splendor, bristling with nervous energy and an eagerness that is almost endearing. She is their saviour, the only one among them able to answer the call of the Sword of Protection. Angella decides that she is capable of liking the former Horde soldier very much, but she certainly won’t make it easy for her.

And it is satisfying to see the girl snap to rigid attention beside her. Perhaps she has a mean streak after all. Light Spinner would have been pleased. But this is no longer an appropriate moment to reminisce, now that She-Ra’s host has intruded. _Adora_ , she chides herself, because the girl is not an empty vessel. Still, she must be reminded that her admission to Bright Moon is very much probationary. She schools her features into her best disapproving motherly scowl and is satisfied at the way Adora squirms beneath her gaze. At least grief hasn’t blunted her edge.

Her dreams that night are vivid and strange, shifting between Bright Moon’s well lit halls and Mystacor’s winding, intimidating corridors. Shifting between moments of quiet tenderness with her husband, to Light Spinner and her austere form of passion that always left Angella breathless. And somewhere amongst the constantly changing landscape of her subconscious, She-Ra appears, sword aloft, eyes boring into her like rapacious comets, though what she is hungry for Angella cannot fathom. When she finally wakes, she realizes that she is already late to the first war room meeting with She-Ra’s host in attendance. _Adora_ , she amends, rising to ready herself, the vision from her dream still echoing in her mind, making her chest tight.

The ballroom was designed to be the centerpiece of the castle, ostentatious and bright and suited to lavish events of revelry and mirth. Now, in a bitter twist of irony, it is only used to hold weekly war council meetings. Every week as she walks from her quarters in the east wing to the heart of the palace, _that day_ plays over in her head. Winter was especially harsh that year-- the cavernous space was impossible to heat effectively, and hail drummed relentlessly against the windows, as cacophonous as artillery fire. Micah held her pale lavender hands between his-- she never wore gloves back then-- and his warmth sank into her skin as they pored over the holographic map with its projections of possible troop movements. He wanted to lead the next strike himself, and at six months pregnant, Angella could hardly join him.

She should have protested, should’ve begged him to wait until spring, until the baby arrived, until she could be there to fight by his side. Perhaps Glimmer would have lost both parents then, and perhaps she would’ve been better off an orphan than stuck with a mother who suffocates her brave spirit with guilt. It was a hard choice to make, and with the benefit of hindsight, she knows waiting would’ve cost the Rebellion too much ground. Bright Moon’s King, it seems, was a small price to pay for their freedom. 

This is a _war room_ , she thinks as she enters, for it has been nothing but a place of strategy and sorrow for over a decade, the place where she carefully calculated the risks, and sent the man she loved off to die. Even if they manage to defeat the Horde, Angella cannot bear to host a celebration in the grandiose ballroom ever again.

And another thing she cannot stomach-- the sight of her late husband’s chair jutting out from the table and very much occupied-- casts a dark shadow over her already foul mood. Light Spinner was far better at putting subordinates in their place than she ever was, and at times even seemed to revel in doing so. Today, Angella does not feel like giving anyone, least of all a former Horde soldier, the benefit of the doubt. Instead she channels an austerity that would have once made her wince in sympathy, and grips the wood hard enough to make it buckle in her grasp. _That is not your chair._ She grits her teeth, speaking to the host-- Adora-- with measured fury. This time there is no delight in watching the girl fumble through an apology, only relief as Glimmer quietly moves her to her proper place.

Awkward start aside, the council carries on as usual, Angella only bending half an ear to Glimmer’s pleas to engage the Horde in combat as she mentally drafts a list of supplies that can be spared for Plumeria. Micah would have let her fight, no doubt, but Glimmer is still very much a child, and children should not be permitted to fight their parents’ wars. She is so young and brimming with hope, but the dancing flames of hope are dangerous. It is easy to be overzealous when one’s heart has never been scorched by loss, so much harder afterward to approach hope with anything but trepidation. Glimmer has known the absence of her father, has understood death since she was old enough to speak its name, but she could never feel the loss as keenly as Angella does. This is the one thing she can bear to refuse her daughter, knowing it is for her own good, knowing it will keep her safe.

That doesn't, however, keep the outrage on her daughter’s face from searing her. She knows that Glimmer thinks her cowardly for barricading herself and everything she holds dear in Bright Moon. For letting the princess alliance fall apart in her grief. And it affects her, clearly, for why else would she allow Glimmer to traipse off into active war zones, if not to temper the rising bile of guilt that climbs her throat whenever her daughter pierces her with a scowl more bruising than any slap to the face. Still, she is firm in her refusal, at least until Adora speaks.

_Send me. Send She-Ra._ At the sound of her voice Angella stirs from her thoughts, and she must bite back a gasp of shock at the bold interruption. _I won’t disappoint you_ , Adora insists, and Angella’s rebuttal dies on her lips. Vehemence burns hot and steady in those pale blue eyes, and she can’t help but be drawn to the flame. _She-Ra_ , whose protection is Adora’s solemn promise, whose sword is Angella’s solace, whose host looks for all the world like nothing is beyond her ability to repair, least of all the festering wounds of a war widow. Adora’s furrowed brow, the determined set of her jaw, her scalding eagerness that eclipses even Glimmers, all speak to Angella unflinchingly in their request-- _I dare you to let me prove my worth. I dare you to let me earn my place_. And all this from a girl who had known nothing but loyalty to the Horde until the Sword of Protection claimed her. It reminds her so much of Micah that Angella’s face flushes with heat. She glances at Glimmer, whose eyes are bright and pleading, and aquesces with a heavy sigh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I never trust my feelings, I waited for the remedy."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here have another (no pens were harmed in the making of this chapter)

II.

They are not alone together often, but when they are it is to share in the comfortable silence of the third floor library-- Adora to read everything she could not get her hands on in the Fright Zone, and Angella to tackle a mountain of legislative paperwork. Resource allocation is a tricky thing to manage in times of conflict, and every year Bright Moon’s assets are spread thinner than the one before. She clenches her jaw hard as she signs off on a request for more supplies to the front lines-- it’s nearly double what they’d been receiving thus far, but she cannot deny their need. The castle will simply have to make do with stricter rations.

_You don’t seem happy._ Adora always speaks to her deliberately, respectfully, but this remark seems offhand, as if she hadn’t meant to voice it aloud.

The sudden diversion startles her, and Angella is unable to stifle an undignified snort. _I’m rarely ever happy Adora._ She intends to be cheeky, but there is more truth in it than she realizes, and she ends up sounding petulant. Adora’s eyes do not leave her, she can feel them staring even as she returns to her paperwork. _What?_ She does not look up but she can nevertheless feel Adora stiffen.

_I feel...responsible._

_For my happiness?_ She waves away Adora’s apprehension. _Don’t concern yourself. I’ll be happy when the Horde is vanquished._ When Hordak’s throat is beneath her boot and she can look into his bloodshot eyes and say _this is for Micah_ before stomping down with fatal force.

Yes, there is that sinister fire that caught Light Spinner's attention once. And much later, Micah's. She wonders if Adora sees it too, burgeoning in her lavender eyes like a solar flare. She wonders if the host is still frightened of her, still eager to earn her place.

_Your Majesty?_

Of course it is Adora’s voice that snaps her from her reverie. And Adora’s shocked gaze that she follows down to the desk where the pen she’d been using is shattered in her tightly clenched fist, staining cloth and paper, seeping into the resin-slick hardwood beneath. _Oh._

Adora is upon her instantly, pressing a cloth handkerchief into her palm, the concern in those wide, pretty eyes so bright and nauseating to look at. It’s the closest they’ve been since Angella loomed over her that first night, and all but threatened to kill her if she stepped out of line. For Glimmer’s sake, of course. She’d do anything for her daughter. 

She crushes the cloth in her fist, smearing indelible red into pristine white, never once taking her gaze off of the soldier girl. Adora stares back with her eyebrows raised and lips parted, baffled by the puzzle of a woman before her, and her effortless compassion is so endearing that Angella’s hands shake as she peels the ruined gloves from her skin and runs the handkerchief over each finger. She does not want to feel it-- the stirring in her long-dormant heart, the ache of affection stinging her with woodwasp precision-- but she has lived long enough to know it is never really a matter of choice. 

War is unpleasant at the best of times, and this war has been so long, she’s lost so much, why should she deny herself further? Wasn’t it Light Spinner who insisted she be ruthless in her pursuit of pleasure? Wasn’t it Micah who offered her absolutely everything so she’d never again have to ask? Her needs didn’t die with either relationship, merely repressed for the sake of duty and pragmatism and motherhood. She doesn’t speak to anyone, save her daughter and her guards and her weary, war-stricken subjects. She has no friends, she hardly ever leaves the castle. The letters from Micah’s sister go into the fire, unopened. But Adora is something special, something she is begrudgingly enamoured with. At once she is dizzy, nearly stratruck, with the full force of the realization that her affections belong in the firm grasp of She-Ra’s splendid host.

Adora swallows, mutters something like _um_ \-- the beginning of a question no doubt-- and Angella suddenly, desperately, wants to beat her to the punch. She tosses the stained cloth aside. _You don’t have to guess what I am thinking,_ she says, _I will tell you_. 

_Oh?_

Angella takes a deep breath, too exasperated with her own cowardice to mull it over one second more. The chair scrapes back as she rises, pressing herself into Adora’s personal space in one smooth movement, pinning her soldier girl there between her body and the edge of the mahogany desk. Her wings curve around them and she leans down so that her breath will surely tickle Adora’s ear when she speaks. _I’m thinking of what you can do to make me happy Adora, since you seem to be so keen to._

_Oh._ They lock eyes then, and Angella puts the latent desire of nearly two decades of solitude behind her stare. Adora’s face flushes and she swallows thickly, assuring her that the subtext of her words has not gone undetected. But for all her bravery, in this, the host falters. _I wouldn’t know what to do._ There is a tremble in her voice, a high pitched panic that has Angella instantly awash with tenderness.

If nothing else, motherhood has taught her to be gentle, has smoothed away so much of the severity and impatience that made her love, at times, untenable. It makes her want to handle Adora softly, speak to her in mollifying tones reserved for fretful children and wounded animals. _Darling, if you’ll let me…_ One hand finds Adora’s cheek in a delicate caress, the other curls around her hip-- possessively, but more protective than avid.

To her delight, Adora’s eyes flutter closed, and she practically melts into the touch. _Yes,_ she sighs, _anything._ Angella brushes her thumb over Adora’s lips, marvelling at how someone so strong can, in the same moment, be so soft, so pliant. Then she tilts Adora’s chin up and kisses her, as carefully as a seamstress might darn a hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the series finale has left me with so many she-ra fics (both old and new) that I'm determined to post, for better or worse. This one is odd because 90 percent of it I wrote in the wake of season one and the other 10 I wrote like 2 days ago which is why the tone and characterization are Like That. Hope you are enjoying regardless! Please spam my comments with bullshit, I still want to talk about this pairing and all of my friends are sick of it :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I gathered your body in envious capture, in envious thought."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did promise smut didn't I?

III.

On average, Angella and Adora exchange as many words as they had previously, but now they are raspy rather than stilted, punctuated by bouts of tender kissing in place of lengthy, terse silences. Whenever they are alone together, be it by coincidence or by design, there is a palpable tension in the air that flares every time their eyes meet between gaps in bookshelves. It becomes an exercise in restraint on her part, trying to focus on the arduous task of maintaining a war effort instead of the way Adora’s gaze burns into her skin. Angella licks her lips, concentrates on the rustle of pages turned, the dust motes suspended in candlelight, anything but the hot coal of desire smouldering away at the very centre of her being.

 _What are you working on?_ Adora, for all her restraint, derives no pleasure from holding herself in denial, and the innocent question becomes imbued with intent, whispered and husky in her ear. She traces the edge of Angella’s wing with her hand, holds herself close enough for the Queen to feel the heat of her body, caressing without touching, want stoking want. This time she has the good sense to let the pen fall from her grasp before it becomes a fistfull of splinters and a smear of red on her skin. Only her darling host could sneak up on her so easily, derail her focus so abruptly, touch her feathers and share her breath and render her so utterly unable to muster a word of protest.

With a sigh, Angella leans back and allows her eyelids to flutter closed. She offers no answer to the question posed, because whatever she was doing melts from her mind, ceding precedence to the immediacy of Adora’s breath on her cheek, Adora’s fingers combing between her coverts, her other hand resting on her thigh, and the heat it radiates. It only takes the slightest turn of her head for their lips to meet, and their kisses are slow and sweet and wonderful, unraveling the worries from Angella’s mind like a loose thread.

They’ve kissed often enough to have perfected the rhythm of it, and it isn’t long before she’s pressing into Adora not just with lips and tongue but with the brush of her body as it rises to meet, to rub against, to push back with a fervor. Mingled moans echo in the enclosed space, candlelight flickers even behind her closed eyelids, every kiss becoming deeper and more demanding, and she _knows_ , despite not a single word of it passing between them, that tonight she will have Adora laid bare before her. Tonight she will split her sweet soldier open and drink the girl entire.

Angella presses her down into a plush armchair, gasping against her lips as fingers slide beneath fabric to caress burning skin. It isn’t enough, and the job of getting Adora’s clothes off without tearing them is a difficult and frantic one, but somehow they manage it. She sinks her teeth into a now-exposed shoulder and sucks hard, reveling in the ragged gasp it elicits. The risk of being found-- by a wandering castle guard or worse, her daughter-- permeates every desperate moment, and Angella is drunk on the urgency of it. She takes Adora’s breast in her mouth, tongue flicking over her nipple until she is writhing against the decadent fabric, making sweet, desperate sounds in the back of her throat. Angella echoes the sentiment as her lips travel further down, a starved creature, never recognizing the hunger for what it was until presented with a feast. 

She’d never had Micah like this, but that was just how things were before the war; they were content to let their intimacy flourish slowly, tenderly, in the gauzy dark of their bedchamber. Angella had everything in abundance then-- his soft skin heady with the scent of rain-laden clouds, the gentle chafe of his beard against her throat as he kissed it, his arms around her after, the rasping promise of _I love you_. There is no promise in Adora’s eyes, only the fervent desire to please her Queen. Sword and skin offered up to slake her fathomless longing.This time Angella will sink her teeth deep into the carmine flesh of this moment until she is aching with sumptuousness. Reverently, she kneels at the altar of her saviour, bare hands gripping Adora’s thighs to pry them apart, whole body shaking with unrestrained want. This time she will gorge herself.

They are pulled together like planets reeling in the vacuum of space, caught in the inexorable gravity of each other’s orbit. Adora’s fingers stroke through her hair, over her shoulders, between her nacreous feathers as they flutter and tremble. Or maybe, Angella thinks as she works her tongue in lazy circles over sensitive flesh, Adora is the sun to which all other heavenly bodies are inevitably drawn. Her legs are hooked over Angella’s shoulders, strong hands holding her head firmly in place, whole body rolling into every delicious stroke until Angella, unable to wait any longer, thrusts two fingers inside. Adora feels incredible, both tight and yielding, and her back arches off the chair so eagerly that Angella can’t help but add another finger immediately, taking her hard and deep. The pace she sets is merciless, making Adora gasp, as if pained, but then when Angella slows-- _please don’t stop_. Angella obliges, chasing the desperate cant of Adora’s hips, their rhythm as impeccable as a soldier’s heartbeat. 

Before the war began in earnest, the Queen often found herself gazing into the night sky from her balcony, imagining the stars. It inspired a certain breathless awe in her-- burning giants that existed long before her time, so far off that only the tiniest motes of light could reach her eyes. Light Spinner showed her the constellations once, in an old book she found during her countless explorations of Mystacor, pale finger tracing the shape of them, each holding a gathering of stars, a story, and the silhouette of a legendary figure, all in one cluster of some distant, twinkling pinpricks poked in a vast blanket of sky. 

Angella gazes up at her Adora and catalogues all the places where a star might rest-- the crown of her head, along the curve of her hips, the base of her throat, those sapphire eyes-- mapping the entire constellation in her mind. There was a time when she thought Light Spinner to be cast in starlight, a time when she saw that ethereal glow etched throughout her beloved Micah as well. A consequence of her nature, that from the wellspring of her heart pours a divine adoration of every lover to broach it. Adora’s likeness is seated in the sky of her dreams-- loose hairs fraying and sticking to her flushed face, mouth open, eyes glossy and brimming with tears. _Oh darling_ , Angella sighs, and curls her fingers just to see her keen, to see the tears fall, every part of her shimmering, shuddering, resplendent. _You are so beautiful._ Angella does not even realize she is crying as well until Adora’s trembling hand finds her cheek and brushes away the trail of moisture there. Their eyes meet, filled with equal parts fervor and stinging sorrow. She turns to press a kiss into Adora’s palm, then bows her head to once again coat her tongue with the sweet sacrament of her saviour.

The mounting pleasure draws Adora’s magnificently toned body taught, and Angella loses herself in the rapture of her release-- the taste of salt and sex that coats her tongue, every sweet, trembling moan that leaves her kiss-swollen lips, the way she comes undone like a burgeoning solar flare, afterimages of pleasure burned into her eyes. Her movements slow but do not cease, determined as she is to draw every last drop of ecstasy out of her glistening, shivering, young lover. She wishes she could spirit Adora away, back in time to an Etheria unspoiled by Hordak’s armies. Summer seemed endless then, the sun dripping into the horizon as languorously as sap from a spile. Angella couldn’t have known how quickly that warmth coating her heart would solidify into amber. 

The thought unsettles her, and she rises, pulling away, but Adora catches her hips and holds her fast. _Can I try?_ There is no need for clarification-- her pupils are blown wide with desire and her smile is sharp and salacious. A good soldier always rises to the occasion.

 _Of course,_ Angella says, licking her lips, suddenly aware of how intensely she throbs between her legs. They kiss, open-mouthed and desperate, Adora moaning as she tastes herself on the Queen’s tongue. Layers of fine silk and soft tyrian cotton are peeled away, oyster shell shucked in favour of the nacre of her body, and her skin warms to Adora’s touch like a pearl. Calloused hands rub and pinch her breasts, followed by the soft lave of Adora’s tongue, the gentle nips and soothing kisses she imparts as those strong soldier’s hands travel down to trace the fullness of her hips. Angella tosses her head back and groans, wings twitching as at last the palm of Adora’s hand slides between her legs, finding her wet and wanting. They gasp in unison when she is finally filled, stretched and sunken into, willing maple bark yielding to the siphoning steel. She allows herself to be tugged forward onto Adora’s lap, and never in her immortal life would she have dreamt of this-- She-Ra, saviour of legend, pleasuring her with nimble fingers as she rolls her hips languidly into each thrust. 

Angella’s lips part, a slow rolling growl of ecstasy mounting in her throat. Her hands tangle and tug those lovely golden locks, snapping the hair tie that binds them. Adora’s voice in her ear is low and ragged. _Are you happy, Your Majesty?_ She’s teasing her as she says it, drawing out of her almost completely until just the tips of her fingers are poised at her entrance, before sliding back in at that same agonizingly decadent pace, curled just right. It is so good Angella nearly sobs.

_Yes._

She-Ra is deployed the next morning-- Dryl this time-- and Angella rises early in spite of her sore and sated lethargy, duty bound as Queen and mother to see Glimmer, Bow and Adora off on their journey. At the threshold of the palace Angella wrings the panic from her voice before telling her daughter to be careful, before catching Adora’s hand in hers, squeezing once, forcing herself to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates?? new things?? more of whatever this bullshit is?? Comment below with what you wanna see, leave me some encourage mints, tell me you love me, you know the drill.


End file.
